The Meaning of Christmas

I have been neglectful in the parenting of my children, it has become apparent.

First, my 6th grader announced that her classmates laughed at her because she didn't know who AC/DC is. Time to start cranking up the classic rock station instead of Tween Radio on Pandora! In fact, that very day, I put it on in the car and gave her a quick synopsis of The Wall.

 "So that's where you and Daddy get that, "How can you have any pudding if you don't eat your meat, thing!""

Yes; that's where we got it.

Next up was Ozzy Osborne and Crazy Train and then she told me she didn't much like this kind of music.

"It's too loud, Mom. It sounds like they are screaming at each other. Can you stop singing, please?"

So much for that. We hadn't even gotten to Rush or The Who or The Rolling Stones. Whose kid is this?

Even worse, however, was my fourth grader's lack of understanding of pop culture. She claimed she had never seen A Charlie Brown Christmas. I found this hard to believe, but she insisted that it was true. In fact, last night as she watched it with Hombre, I heard her exclaim (loudly, of course), "So that's what you mean by a Charlie Brown Christmas tree!"

Clearly I have some work to do.

My girls may not "get" a lot of pop culture references (after all, we have no cable!), but they do understand the meaning of Christmas, at least "our" meaning of Christmas.

Hombre's and my families are religiously diverse: Catholics, Jews, Presbyterians, Lutherans, Methodists, non-believers, lapsed believers and everything in between. One reason we all get along so well is that we (generally) have tolerance and respect for each other. Our flavor in this unlikely stew is Unitarian Universalism. We have raised our kids in this tradition and to do so requires a willingness to answer a lot of questions.

Unitarian Universalism's guiding belief is that each person must engage in her own search for truth and that there are many paths to the divine. There is no pre-written script to read from nor a designated recipe for salvation. For more about what UU's believe, go here.


My children know the story of Mary, Joseph and Baby Jesus and they know that many people consider Jesus divine. They know that before there was Jesus, many people celebrated the Winter Solstice on a date that falls, not coincidentally, close to December 25. They know that during this "dark" time of the year, other cultures and religions have celebrations involving light, such as the miracle of sacred oil that lasted for eight days.

For us, the Solstice is a celebration of the divine rhythm of nature and the universe. It reflects our hope and trust in the cycles of the seasons. For us, the story of the birth of Jesus shows us how all children, even the most humble and poor, have the spark of the divine within them. Even a child born in such circumstances can have an important message to share and each child born is truly a gift to all of humanity.

Yes, we perpetuated the Santa Claus myth and we fully enjoyed it. This will be the first year that we have no believers in the house and that's okay. My kids understand that, just as we all have the spark of the divine within us, we can all be Santa Claus by sharing gifts and kindnesses with others.

Of course, they also know that every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings.

Taking Care

I spent my birthday with Mom and Dad. I left home very early for my 98 mile drive to their condo, so I could pick them up and take them to the cancer treatment center. Dad was scheduled for both PET and CT scans. Chemo had been completed and it was time to think about radiation. Dad takes the tests and procedures all in stride and insisted that I needn't have come.

"This isn't the way you should spend your birthday, Margaret."

"It's fine, Dad. I am really glad that I get to spend the day with you and Mom. I'd just be home by myself anyway."

"I can handle this just fine."

Except I was afraid he couldn't. Ever since Thanksgiving he had had a cough. Enough of a cough that he wasn't sleeping well and sounded terrible. Dad has tended to get bronchitis following nearly every cold for the last 10 years or so. With his resistance low from the chemotherapy and half a lung gone, the last thing he needed was to end up with pneumonia. He needed to let someone take care of him. He was still worn out from our trip south to clear out their house.

Ever since we had returned from South Carolina the week before, it had been just he and Mom at their condo. He had jumped right back into his old routine without a second thought: shopping, cooking and taking care of her. Even though he had not been feeling well when we were away. Even though he slept nearly the whole way home, with a bag nearby in case his nausea got the best of him.

"I've leaned on you kids enough. I swore I'd never be a burden to you."

But it isn't a burden to take care of someone you love; you just do it. You do it because you want to do it; because it feels right to do it. I guess that's the way he feels about taking care of Mom, even though it is exhausting to be always on alert for her stumbling; to make sure she takes her many medications; to be continually repeating what you have told her already so many times; to always be the one both navigating and steering the ship.

At the clinic that day, as the radioactive solution emptied into his body, one of his oncologists stopped in to have a look at him. Although the doctor said his lungs sounded clear, we asked for antibiotics. We met little resistance, given his history. Mom had come with us, of course, and we asked the doctor to have a look at her, too. The radiation had left her neck raw, the skin peeling and cracking. It was making her miserable. He wrote prescriptions for a Z-pack and some special cream.

"I don't know why they need to do a PET scan. I told them we don't have any pets," he says to the nurse, with a sly look.

She laughs. She knows both of them well, having seen them daily during Mom's five weeks of radiation treatment. I like the way she jokes with them in a familiar way. It almost felt like a friendly visit, if you failed to notice the IV bag hanging by Dad's chair. Mom and I sat with our magazines while they took Dad away for the scans. She is worried about him.

"I don't like that cough at all. He needs to rest. He doesn't need to do everything - I can cook."

I know she doesn't remember her recent attempt to heat up a cold cup of coffee in the microwave that resulted in all four stove burners turned to high.

"I know, Mom. He worries about you. I think after all the years of you doing everything, he figures you deserve to be treated like a queen."

"He does take good care of me."

By the time we get out of there, stop and have the prescriptions filled and get back to their place, it's three o'clock and we're starved. We have our usual: soup and cheese and crackers. Both Mom and Dad are exhausted. I persuade Dad to lie down and rest. I need to get out of there and head home. I know my Hombre and my girls will have birthday plans for me and I don't want to disappoint them by being late. Before I go, I get the cream for Mom's neck so I can put some on her. One less thing for Dad to do.

The directions read, "Apply using sterile procedures." What the hell does that entail? "Spread cream on affected skin using sterile swab or gauze, wearing gloves." I search the bathroom. The q-tips in the dusty jar in the cabinet are definitely not sterile. No gloves. I spot a box of sterile gauze pads that, while not new, are unopened. Bingo. I use copious amounts of hand sanitizer, carefully unwrap a gauze pad and open the jar. I scoop out enough that I won't have to "double dip" and as gently as possible (for this bull in a china shop) I pat it onto Mom's raw neck. She squirms: "That burns." (There is a reason I chose law school over medical school, and that's all I have to say about that.)

Finally done, I give Dad detailed instructions on how and when to apply more cream. After hugs all around, I race out the door. No sooner am I in the car, than I remember that I am chaperoning the 4th grade field trip the next day. Oh, shit. I won't be able to go to the store and the day after that is December 1st and I haven't had a chance to pick up the chocolate-filled Advent calendars that are a tradition in our family. The girls will be so bummed. On my iPhone, I track down the nearest World Market, only about 15 miles out of my way.

I finally pulled into the driveway about 6:30 that evening, completely exhausted. Hombre wasn't home yet, having stopped to pick up my favorite Indian food for my birthday dinner. The girls screamed when I came in.

"Mommy, mommy, you're home!"

"Happy birthday, Mama!"

"Look, look what we made you!"

From-scratch vanilla cake with homemade chocolate buttercream frosting. It was the best cake I have ever eaten. Something tells me that my girls enjoyed taking care of me.



Making Sense of It All

I recently returned from 8 days away from my family, by far the longest time I have ever been away from either my Hombre or my girlies.  My Dad, one of my brothers and I drove to South Carolina to clear out my Mom and Dad's house, which has been sold.

Mom did not come with us. She was still in the midst of radiation treatments for her recurrent cancer and her health is too fragile for her to make such a trip. It was probably for the best anyway. This was and still is her dream house. The wallpaper she so carefully selected nearly 30 years ago had been stripped and the walls painted a neutral gray while she has been in Ohio these last eight months. The furniture was not all returned to its previously precise placement by the workers, nor were pictures and artwork re-hung. I can only imagine how disturbing it would have been for her to return to her home and find all not as she had left it. No, it was better that she did not come with us. Besides, we had a big job to do. There would be no time for her indecision and contemplation of the artifacts she had carefully folded, wrapped and tucked away; no time for her lengthy retelling of their origin and significance; no time for  her reliving the events memorialized by them.

Dad, ever the optimist, had originally planned on going alone. He thought he could do it himself in a matter of a few days. My siblings and I quickly vetoed this plan, having had many opportunities to observe the packed-to-the-gills state of the closets, drawers and shelves in the house.

We embarked six days after Dad's final chemotherapy treatment. He had blithely assumed he would sail through this one as he had the others, but he did not. This one hit him harder, with severe fatigue and nausea, dry mouth and lack of appetite. The stress of his worries - about Mom, about the closing on the house, about his health, about saying his good-byes - took their toll on him, too. He had trouble sleeping and an odd rash broke out on his face. He faintly offered to help drive during the two-day trip down and did not protest when we declined. My take-charge Dad was only too happy to relinquish the decision-making about what to give away and what to keep. He was relieved, in fact, to do so.

My parents survived the Great Depression, which provides all the explanation needed for the state of closets and cupboards. We tried so hard, my brother and I, to imagine which of her belongings Mom would most want to have around her in the limited space of their new apartment. Which mementos meant the most? Which would she even remember she had after all these years? We found elbow length evening and everyday gloves from the time when ladies wore gloves. We found her dissection kit from college biology classes. We found the dance card from her senior prom. We found her grade school autograph books, with all the silly little nothings that ten-year olds, even in the 1930's, said to each other. It was funny; it was agonizing.

We tried to set aside things that would be meaningful to our siblings. Hospital discharge papers of my younger sister, complete with newborn footprints; letters home from my older brother while on a long-ago camping trip through Canada; the note to my Mom from my six-year-old older sister upon the birth of her new little sister; cards celebrating the birth of another sister. And so on. It was an awesome responsibility, sorting the history of our family and trying to anticipate what everyone would want.

While a constant parade of visitors, old and dear friends and workers filed through, my brother and I sifted. We tossed the baskets full of strips of fabric clipped from pants that had been hemmed, the endless supply of  rubber bands from produce and inevitable recycled plastic containers. We laughed over the old pantyhose cut into strips to tie up plants and uncancelled stamps torn from envelopes and squirreled away for re-use. Box after box filled with hotel shampoo and lotion bottles, bars of soap, shower caps and shoe shine cloths were discarded. Drawer after drawer contained the ubiquitous free address labels sent by charities seeking donations, along with old shoelaces, twist ties and notepads. We couldn't just dump entire drawers, since there may well be (and often were) old photos tucked in there, or letters or cards or all three.

Mom had been an avid cook, crafter and sewer. We found pile after pile of recipe clippings and household hints, along with decades' worth of cooking and decor magazines. Craft supplies filled entire cupboards in her laundry/sewing room.

It was frustrating and exhausting. I couldn't understand why she saved all of this stuff, this junk. Somehow, after seeing it all there, in her home, it finally clicked. She had grown up in a time of such scarcity, such lack, that she simply had to be prepared for the next Great Depression. She would be ready. Her ingenuity would be her salvation and her family's salvation. As for the craft supplies, who among us can easily accept that they have done the last of something they once loved to do? The last round of golf, the last fishing trip, the last knitted sweater? Who can just give up, throw in the towel (or the embroidery hoop) and say, "I'm done"?

All week long, as my Dad said his goodbyes and sorted his own history, he would look at my brother and me and shake his head.

"You two drew the short straw this time, didn't you?"

Truthfully, I don't see it that way at all.

I am so pissed off right now.

The news this week has really brought me down. Two seemingly unrelated threads are really the same old story: a person in power (usually male) having a sense of entitlement toward other humans in positions of significantly less power (usually women or children) and bystanders doing nothing to stop the illegal activity.

Presidential candidate Herman Cain first had "memory loss" about his abuse of women in professional settings. Once his memory (partially) recovered, his acolytes and the media went into attack mode:

"She's blonde."

"She's attractive."

"She's a single mother."

"She's had financial troubles."

"If this were true, why didn't they come forward sooner?" (We know that at least two did!)

Um, maybe because they knew they would be attacked - LIKE YOU ARE DOING RIGHT NOW.

I don't think I know a single woman who hasn't experienced inappropriate behavior in some form by male colleagues. There is a very large sub-set of this group who have experienced such behavior directed at them by a male superior. It has happened to me. More than once. And no, I did not report it. Why? I am certainly no shrinking flower, but in each instance, the potential cost of such action was too  great. Put simply: I needed the jobs. I had to support myself and my family. I knew that if I spoke up I would be forever marked as "difficult", "not a team player" or even worse, written off, fired, let go at the first opportunity. The legal community is small and word travels fast. I could not afford the potential, likely, backlash.

The people working around me saw these episodes or knew of them. Certain men have reputations in the workplace. When I was a young lawyer, partners that I worked for witnessed judges and other lawyers making vile, humiliating comments to me and did nothing. They were men who would never have said such things to me themselves, but they did not defend me or support me. They ignored the episodes as if they never happened or maybe they were especially cordial afterward - buying me a coffee or lunch. This was their way of saying "thanks for taking one for the team," but it was the kind of thing they would never have to "take for the team." I would tell myself, Don't let the bastards get you down. You are tough. You can deal with this. And so I did. Just as the women abused by Herman Cain did. That they endured does not make his actions legal nor absolve him from responsibility for them.

And just how does this relate to Jerry Sandusky molesting little boys in the locker room at Penn State? Because, once again, we have a person in a position of power imposing his illegal desires on other human beings, this time those with not just less power, but with absolutely no power. And even worse, we have witnesses, not just to the rumor and innuendo that surely must have been rife in, of all places, a locker room, but to the actual physical acts.

We know that a 28 year old assistant coach saw Sandusky, naked, anally raping a naked little boy in a shower in the locker room. We know a janitor saw Sandusky orally raping another naked little boy in the shower in the locker room.  Neither witness stopped the illegal acts. Crimes were being committed against children, and witnesses did not stop them! If you saw a thief grab someone's purse, you'd yell, "Stop!" wouldn't you? So why wouldn't you say, "Coach - let that kid go. That's not right."

We know the assistant coach reported the incident.We know that officials at the university took the step of taking away Sandusky's keys to the facility. That sends a message, doesn't it?

Joe Paterno is revered at Penn State and elsewhere. If he was such a great guy, why did he let this happen? And he did let it happen. Sandusky's known activities go back to the early 1990's up through at least 2006. The assistant coach told Paterno what he had seen. Paterno knew what the university's response had been to that report. He knew Sandusky had a charity that effectively "groomed" under-privileged boys. He could have fired Sandusky. He could have gone to the police and asked them to investigate. He could have insisted Sandusky get help for his "problem." He did nothing and he was the power in that organization, make no mistake. What 10 year old boy could stand up to a system like that? What hope could he possibly have had that someone would believe him and make it stop?

Children are not chattels. They are human beings. No one has the right to do these things. There are laws against sexual activity with minors. And yet, in Joe Paterno's locker room it was allowed to happen. That's not such a great legacy, is it, "JoePa"?

What was it Jesus of Nazareth once said? "Whatsoever you do to the least of my children you do unto me"? Yeah, something like that.

Like Sand through the Hourglass

This time it was her heart that landed her in the hospital.

Mom hadn't been feeling well for close to a week. Nothing specific; some nausea, vague discomfort, a little swelling, poor appetite. A night of vomiting. Then she was a little short of breath and finally she just couldn't lay down on the table for her radiation treatment. Her blood pressure was way up. The ambulance was called and rushed her to the hospital. She came home 4 days later and about 16 pounds lighter with three new medications added to the roster. She also has a new diagnosis: "secondary pulmonary hypertension." A condition for which there is no cure.

The last time she was admitted, it was congestive heart failure and out of control blood pressure brought on (we think) by an untreated UTI. Before that it was a bad fall.Who knows what it will be next time. As my Dad often says, "Getting old ain't for sissies."

She has finally acquiesced to using the walker, although it's clear she finds it cumbersome. She tolerates having her oxygen on around the clock and accepts without complaint Dad's daily checks of her blood pressure and oxygen saturation level.

"He's always fussing over me," she'll say, shaking her head.

Along with her discharge from the hospital, the "Hospitalist" ordered home visits from a nurse, a physical therapist and an occupational therapist.  The nurse visited for the first time Saturday, while I was there. She went over Mom's history, her symptoms and her medications. She checked Mom's vital signs and talked about warning signs that warrant a call to the doctor. We talked about her cancer.

"Is she getting chemo?"

"No, right now she is just getting radiation on the tumor in her neck."

Mom pulls aside the collar of her blouse and gently presses down near her clavicle. 

"I think it's getting smaller; don't you Jim? Doesn't it look smaller to you?" She looks at me and I nod, even though I can't see any difference.

"So just palliative care then?" asks the nurse.

My Dad looks stricken. He nods, his voice thick, "At this point. But if things change we may reconsider."

The topic changed to her health care power of attorney. Yes, she has one; no, she doesn't remember who. The hard copies are at their home in South Carolina.

"Do you have a "DNR"?

Mom looks blankly at the nurse.

"No," my Dad says. Mom still looks blank.

"A Do Not Resuscitate order. That's so if your heart stops - do you want them to bring you back?" the nurse asks.

Mom doesn't answer. She is confused. She doesn't understand. I don't think she wants to make that decision or even talk about it. I don't think she really knows what she wants at this point. The nurse slides a folder across the table and tells my Dad that the forms are all in there along with pamphlets that explain them. She seems to assume that they will want to fill one out.

"You'll want to have copies on you, so if the paramedics come, they will know what her wishes are."

She is cheery, this Nurse Heather. A local, small town girl. She is upbeat and full of chit-chat. I'm not sure she knows about Mom's dementia. It isn't obvious at first. A couple more visits and she'll figure it out. There wasn't really a way for me to bring it up to her politely in front of Mom.

As the complications and conditions grow in number, I am somehow less concerned with the details and more concerned with the feelings. I want my Mom to be treated with respect, to have her dignity. Even if she can't remember, even if she gets confused. I have always hated it when caregivers talk in sing-song to the elderly, like they are babies.  These are people who have lived long lives full of joys and sorrows, excitement and boredom. They have made the important decisions as well as the less important ones. They have opinions.

But does she really need to decide right now, in the middle of this lovely October day, whether she wants them to "bring her back"? Can't she just sit and look out at the lake, watch the birds and enjoy the scenery?

Pinched, prodded and poked

I am officially a writer now, because I have struggled over a post for 10 days now and just set it aside to begin afresh. "Everything is better when it's a-fresh," said the produce man to the melon-squeezer. Just as I will drink no wine before its time, I shall publish no post before it's fully roas't. Somebody, please, stop me.

Any-hoo, four weeks ago yesterday, I had the worst dental experience of my life. Let me preface this by saying, I have good teeth. Only 2 fillings in my mid-to -late 40 year old mouth. Well, and a little bonding on one of my front teeth from an unfortunate diving incident at the Holidome in Cincinnati, Ohio during a fraternity formal event I attended in 1984. Never mind about that.

We recently got new dental insurance. The pickings were slim for dentists in our area. Basically, we had a choice of DDS in a box (Aspen Dental) or the guy I ended up with. I took the two girls to him first. I know, I know, it sounds bad, even canary-in-the-coal-mine-ish, but they did fine. Cleanings, exams, sealants and all was well. Curiously, I don't think he laid an instrument on them. It was all done by his babe-alicious assistants. All he did was look into their mouths and give me the names of several of his orthodontist cronies to contact, stat.

The same day, after a very brief, impromptu exam, he suggested that my 2 existing fillings, now more than 20 years old and causing me no trouble by the way, should be replaced because it appeared they were beginning to crack.

"Schedule an appointment and we'll take care of them. Plus, the bonding on your front tooth is worn and stained. It needs to be replaced. We can do that while we have you in here."  He was all smiles and charm.

"Okay", I said. Trust the man in white. I scheduled my appointment.

I arrived at the appointed hour a couple of weeks later. Following her rigorous cleaning,  Righteous Babe #1 applied a topical numbing agent to my upper and lower left gums, in anticipation of the Novocaine shots to come. I'd only had Novocaine twice before, and my recollection was that the injections were annoying more than painful; kind of like mosquito bites. "I've had two babies with no anesthesia, I can handle this",  I thought. I'd always prided myself on my non-chalance about medical procedures, shots and blood-draws.

Dr. De Sade (to which he shall hereinafter be referred) strutted into the room with Righteous Babe #2 at his side. He picked up an enormous metal syringe and with no bedside, rather chair side, chit-chat, plunged the infernal thing into my lower gum line. I felt a vibration run through my body and guttural noises came, unbidden, from my mouth, much as you might have heard emanate from convicts strapped to "Old Sparky", Ohio's now-retired electric chair.

As he continued to depress the plunger, Dr. De Sade asked with furrowed brow, "Does it feel like an electric charge? " I nodded. "That's okay, it takes effect really quickly when that happens." Abruptly and with no apology, he picked up a second syringe and injected it into my upper jaw, directly above the lower injection. He stood and announced that he'd be back in a few minutes. Righteous Babe #2 asked if I was okay. I widened my eyes and shrugged. Truthfully, I did not know.

De Sade returned very shortly, picked up the drill and it began to whine. I closed my eyes, imagining myself elsewhere. And then I jumped.

"She's not numb."

"Did you feel that?"

I nodded.  He picked up a syringe and said, "We'll give you a little more Novocaine," and the plunger once again depressed. I felt a cold sensation in my lower jaw and again in my upper.

"Be back in a minute," oozed De Sade.

Righteous Babe #2 patted my shoulder. "Are you okay?"

"I gueth tho."

She giggled and I stabbed her with my eyes.

"Thith ithn't muth fun."

De Sade returned once again, picked up the drill and began to probe. Again, I jumped, involuntarily.

"She's still not numb."

"Did you really feel that?"

"Yeth," I nodded.

He picked up the syringe. I widened my eyes. De Sade dug it into my lower jaw, sawing it in and out. It was like something from Little Shop of Horrors. I could see the end of the syringe in his hand outside my mouth; I could see the in-and-out motion although I couldn't feel it. Then he administered another shot to the upper jaw. He stood up and said, "Let's give it another couple of minutes."

De Sade announced that Righteous Babe #3 would remove the bonding from my front tooth, since it required no Novocaine and he would come back to do the rest.

Righteous Babe #3 drilled away at my front tooth, periodically squirting water into my mouth and stabbing me in the tonsils with the spit-sucking probe that hissed like an angry copperhead inside my cranium. I prayed silently for it to all be over soon.

When she was finished, Righteous Babe #3 asked how I was doing. I attempted to answer but the whole left side of my face was immobile

"Cah I geh a dink oh wah-eh?"

Righteous Babes #2 and #3 both nodded. I got up and went to the sink. I turned on the tap and filled a cup. I held it to my lips, as is customary, yet it trickled right out of my mouth. I attempted to swish. It was fruitless. Then I looked in the mirror. A good portion of my right front tooth was gone, giving me a jack-o-lantern-like look, but the left side of my face would not move. At all.  I could only laugh. Hysterically.

"I'm tho thaky," I said, as I climbed back into the chaise-du-torture.

Righteous Babe #2 said, "Oh, that's the epinephrine in the shots. It makes you shaky. It'll wear off."

For the last time, De Sade returned.

"You've got to be numb now!" he insisted.

He drilled. And drilled. And drilled. Above the whine of the instruments, I felt nothing. I briefly wondered if I was ingesting dangerous amounts of mercury from the amalgam fillings he was pulverizing, but I wasn't about to stop him and ask. It was obvious that he wanted this over with as much as I did. Plus, I was not at all confident in my ability to make myself understood, which to be honest, is not a concern I have ever had since I acquired the gift of gab well before age 2.

Righteous Babe #3 reappeared. "She'll do the fillings," De Sade announced as he hurried from the room.

She packed and poked while I held my mouth open. She sanded and polished. My jaws ached from holding them open for so long.

"How do they feel?"

"I haf no fucking ithea."

She giggled. "I guess not. Well, you're all done!" She handed me a mirror. I examined my lovely, newly bonded front tooth and the paralyzed left side of my face, along with the drool spilling over my lower lip.

"Any inthructhionth?"

"You probably shouldn't eat anything until the Novocaine wears off because you could bite your tongue."

"How lonh?"

She looked at her watch. "It's 4 o'clock now." She mused.

(I had been there 2 and a half hours.)

"Probably until 6 or so."

I got up to leave, feeling distinctly violated. I went to the front desk to "check out", only to discover how little my insurance actually covered for the expense of the afternoon's fun. As I wrote my check, De Sade passed by, well beyond the reception desk, in a hurry to somewhere else. He looked at me and smirked. "It'll probably be closer to 7 by the time it wears off."

Like hell. It's 4 weeks later and while my face is back to normal, my tongue is still numb. I still can't tell if the fillings are smooth, or how hot my coffee is until it hits the back of my throat. The numbness alternates with the pins-and-needles feeling you get as blood flow returns to a foot you've been sitting on.

I don't mean to complain. I know I'm lucky to even be able to afford regular dental care. I know it could be worse. It's not life-threatening. Rather, it's like having a pebble in your shoe. A pebble in your shoe every single hour of every single day. It won't kill you, but it will drive you stark. raving. mad. This is the theory behind Chinese water torture.

So yesterday I went to the dermatologist. After an embarrassingly thorough examination of the entire expanse of my pasty Midwestern skin, she announced that a spot on my right (facial) cheek should come off.

"It's a little suspicious. We should have it biopsied. It's no big deal, just a little scrape."

"Okay," I said. Family history being what it is, I'm taking no chances with the Big C.

Her nurse came in, bearing a tray.

"Okay", she chirped, "Let's numb you!"

"Topical?" I asked.

"Oh, no; you'll need a lidocaine injection. Why? Are you scared of needles?"

Not me. I'm not scared of needles. Not one little bit, Dammit.

The $64,000 Question

We knew over two weeks ago that Mom's cancer was back. We knew it was in the lymph nodes in her neck. Last week, we learned that it was not in her stomach. Yesterday we found out that it is in lymph nodes not only in her neck, but her sternum, her abdomen and her adrenal glands. There are suspicious nodules in her lung, as well. "Stage 4 metastatic cancer"; that's what the doctor called it.

He's a good egg, this oncologist; a nice Irish boy. As Mom, Dad, my brother and I sat in the tiny exam room, he enthusiastically described a variety of chemotherapy treatments. Taxotere and carboplatin (what my Dad is getting) are too harsh for her. But there are other treatment regimens to consider. He talks about studies and a drug called 5FU (yes, really) and antibody treatment if the tumors are HER-positive.

We ask questions and he answers them. Mom's system is very sensitive; she has reactions to lots of medications, including most antibiotics. She takes coumadin. She doesn't tolerate codeine-based pain medications. He says the good news is that no cancer showed up in the liver. "If it was in her liver, there wouldn't be much we could do at all and I wouldn't recommend chemo in that situation." He almost makes it sound like things could be worse.

He tells us that we can choose to forgo chemo: "It's a perfectly reasonable choice", he says. He would, however, radiate the tumor in her neck to minimize discomfort, because without chemo it will most certainly continue to grow and will press upon nerves and blood vessels.

What he does not talk about is life expectancy. When I ask about "progression", he carefully skirts the issue. I know there is no crystal ball and if there were, I probably wouldn't like what I would see in it, anyway. When I finally pin him down, asking if he can give us any sort of timeline (he seems to like this term better than "life expectancy"), he says 6 to 13 months. I ask if that is with or without treatment. He says, "With and without."

Dad, a man of quick decisions and goals and action, is ready to commit to something. For him, a plan is a necessary thing; inaction and indecision are torture. My brother and I pull him back.

"Let's discuss this, Dad. It's a big decision."

The doctor agrees. "I will be seeing you on Tuesday for your next treatment. We can finalize our plans then. We have time."

We decide to schedule an appointment with the radiation oncologist right away, to have a look at what can be done for the large tumor in her neck and book the appointment before we leave.

After hugs all around, we start to separate in the lobby, heading off in our different directions. And then I reconsider. I look at my brother. He meets my gaze and nods.

"Let's find a place to talk a bit before we go."

There is an empty room, right off the lobby. Chairs surround a table near a cooler filled with Ensure and there several wigs on stands perched on nearby book shelves. We pass by the magazine rack and Mom stops to look.

"Hey, there's the Field & Stream you were reading the last time we were here, Mom!"

She chuckles. I don't know if she actually remembers or not, but she plays along, lingering at the rack. She picks up a magazine and starts flipping the pages. I take her arm.

"Mom, let's leave the magazines. We need to talk about what the doctor told us. Let's go in here and sit down for a few minutes."

We sit at the table and all that's missing is a deck of cards. Dad looks over at the cooler.

"Have you ever tried that Ensure? God, it's awful stuff. I tried it when I was trying to get my strength back after the surgery, but I couldn't get the stuff down."

Mom fusses with the silk flower centerpiece.

"So, Mom, what do you think about what the doctor had to say?"

She shrugs. "I don't know what to think."

I go into lawyer-counseling-client mode.

"Mom, the decision about whether to have chemo is up to you. For some people, they want to know they tried everything; for other people, the chance of more time just isn't worth feeling rotten.  We have to balance out what is the up side and what is the down side of treatment."

"I just don't know." She pauses, looking down and then back up, at Dad.

"I would hate to think I could have done something about it and didn't, but I have lived a long time. I have had a good, long life."

"Mom," my brother says, "You can always stop the chemo if you start it and it makes you miserable. You don't have to continue it just because you started it."

"I just want her to be comfortable," Dad says, looking across the table at her.

"I guess you just do what you have to do," she says as she shrugs her shoulders again, looking rather lost. She rotates the flower arrangement and examines the container it is in.

Mom looks pretty. She recently had her hair permed and it's short and curly; mostly silver. Her eyes are the same pale aquamarine they have always been. She is wearing her favorite blue print silk blouse. But for the lump on the side of her neck, which really isn't very obvious, she looks fine. You would never know she has cancer.

We finish our discussion with no clear resolution, only the agreement that we will talk among the family and finalize plans by Tuesday.

I shouldn't be writing. I have too much to do. Everyday stuff: laundry; cleaning; parent-teacher conferences this afternoon; preparing for my book club hostessing duties tonight. But I can't; not until I process this latest twist in the road.

I wish she had a strong opinion about what she wanted. I wish she felt one way or another. I don't feel right steering her. It should be her choice. But what if she can't make the decision? Could she ever forgive us if we said,  "no chemo" and she went quickly? Would she forgive us if we said "yes" and she got sicker and felt awful? And what about Dad? He is beating the cancer that attacked him and he needs our support, too.

Yesterday was a hard day, but it was also a day for celebration. It was Mom and Dad's 62nd wedding anniversary.